Criers cry and liars lie.

Timing is everything.

I am obsessed with the Country Strong soundtrack, and I am acutely aware of how that sounds. Did you get a look at these boots? Christ, aren't they ugly? BUT SO SENSIBLE. Sometimes those are the breaks, kittens. I wanted to wear these hot little puppies from Asos, but they had zero arch support and how sad is that? (S0 sad. The saddest. SADDER.) In retrospect, it wouldn't have worked out. Right? There is no way all that suede would have survived all that snow. Y'all in Boston and NYC let me know if I'm wrong; you're the experts with your 84,000th snowpocalypse this winter. I know you don't sacrifice style for practicality every damn day there's some powder on the ground. Spill it.

Would they have survived all our Tahoe shenanigans?

She's acting single, I'm drinking double.

Here's a gay fable for y'all:

M will come through the door, set her bag down and kiss me hello. We're supposed to go dancing, have a cocktail or two in a bit. After one look at me she'll say, "I thought you were already dressed," while she opens up a bottle of cava and hands me a glass. We'll clink them together, and I'll say "I am dressed!" and faster than she can take her first sip I'll dash upstairs to the bedroom, before she can give me the eye. You know, the butch one with the perfect eyebrows that know a whole lot better than to trust shady femme estimates prior to a night out.

Especially on a weeknight.

Little Miss Prissy's sippin' martinis, boys on the bar stools shootin' down whiskey.

"Jonesey," she'll warn, and I'll sing-song down the steps, "I'm just freshening up!" Yes, as a matter of fact, I am dressed. As in wearing a dress and a necklace I intend to wear. But. But.
Butches & Co., here is the top secret femme translation for "just freshening up":  Peel off the tights, paint the nails, touch up the hair, smoke the eye. Swap the no-nonsense blazer for no-holds-barred black lace, the witchy boots for sky-high, rhinestone heels. Slide on the absurdly large cocktail ring, slip off the studs and replace them with something that'll catch the light through dark heavy curls on a dimly lit dance floor. Linger over which perfume to wear. Remember the time. Sip drink. Grab bag. Grab the phone. Try to remember if your ID is in your wallet or hers. Forget something, inevitably. Race downstairs to present your VERY FRESH self to wherever a VERY PATIENT butch is waiting.

Now you know the truth.

Like some wide-eyed dreamer.

The petite and I have decided to take the dogs out for a jog when I come home from work every night. Tonight was our first night. I huffed and puffed and broke a goddamn sweat, I'll admit it. This was motivated in part not by lofty 2011 resolutions but realizing how busted I felt after my epic ski weekend (um, the one pictured). There was a whole lot of exertion that weekend. Skiing is exercise and I enjoy it. It is rigorous.

Post-skiing I felt great, energetic, you know the drill. By Wednesday or so last week, I felt sluggish, achy, like my body knew what it felt like to get a workout and wasn't going to have any of this zero-exercise malarkey anymore. At first I blamed it on the altitude change, but it didn't budge. I've jogged before, when I lived in Oakland. Long, meandering jogs through the cemetery, up and down all those relentless steps in the very still morning, forcefully brushing off the dead. Brisk, sweaty jogs around Lake Merritt in the afternoon, dreading the dodgy end but loving the rest, by the bird sanctuary and the boathouse and pagodas, that slow sun slapping against the murky water, making everything about it very romantic.

I guess I'm jogging again.

On the drive home from Tahoe, M & I stopped 84,000 times to find some part of the South Yuba River that wasn't completely inaccessible or trespassing or tantamount to certain death. It is a beautiful river, but elusive as all get-out. We stopped so many times we fell an hour behind schedule. We stopped for lunch. At one point we'd pulled over where families were sledding, building snowmen, there was a canyon not far and surely it was cut through by the Yuba. It wasn't. A teenager came running through the clearing, hollering that the police were going to start ticketing cars for $55 if we didn't all clear out. We all hustled out of there. We fell two, three hours behind schedule, having stumbled into Lake Donner in all its glory. We couldn't find any place to stop that would let us drag our fingers in the riverbed, turn rocks over with our hands, yelp at the icy water. It was infuriating.

We settled for this place. This little clearing and all its shallow, light- and shadow-filled pools of water. A huge bank of snow half-covered a big gate and sloped down to it. There wasn't a soul around, it looked like the perfect place to hide a dead body. They're always hidden in crushingly beautiful places in the movies, I thought.

I hesitated, but M dragged me down and once it was clear I wouldn't die or break a leg I bounced around like a puppy from one stream to another, and here you go.

Dress & Lace Jacket: H&M Fur & Gloves: Vintage Necklace & Ring: Banana Republic Lipstick Bullet Necklace: Culp Baubles Boots: Some ski shop in Tahoe City!